


A Study into the Nature of Innocence

by Lemondrop



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2681972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemondrop/pseuds/Lemondrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One cold night, Enjolras and Combeferre help a young woman give birth. In this uncomfortable predicament, the marble lover of liberty learns a bit more about the people he is fighting so hard to free. And child rearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 15th of December 1830

Night had descended upon Paris covering the usually boisterous city with a a surreal veil of silence. Undeterred by the biting cold, creatures of the night were lurking in the filthy streets of the city, trying desperately to make a living in one way or another. In small alleys, the painted faces of prostitutes were showing often toothless smiles in hope of attracting the eye of one or two customers. Their dirty, flimsy dresses did nothing to either cover their modesty or protect them against the harsh winter wind. Pickpockets were loitering in the shadows of buildings, quietly stalking the few gents that had braved the streets during the night. Men, women and children with no homes lay motionless in the corners of buildings. Perhaps they were dead. Perhaps they were dying. Nobody bothered to check.

Seemingly unaware of the inconspicuous activities that plagued the streets of the Latin Quarter, two men were walking down Rue du Jardinet, their dark coats providing suitable protection against the biting cold.

The first was tall and thin, with handsome, chiselled features and a head of blond curls that were raised by the wind to form a make-shift hallo. The little moonlight which engulfed the night seemed to reflect upon his pale skin giving it the strange appearance of marble. Next to him, trying to keep up with his companion's long, purposeful and rather stiff strides, stood a slightly shorter fellow. Unlike his friend's other-worldly, striking appearance, the second man had completely unremarkable features. His frame was lean but not quite as graceful as his companion's, his skin was fair but not quite as pale, his hair fell in brown-chocolate waves which were ruffled by the wind giving him quite a wild appearance. His brown eyes were obscured by a pair of round spectacles propped on a straight, thin nose.

When in each other's company, some people feel the need to talk about anything and everything. However, the two men strode down the street in silence, each of them lost in his own thoughts, feeling quite content to be undisturbed by idle chatting.

A sharp scream pierced silence of the night and the two men paused for a second. They did not utter a single word and, instead, met each other's gaze for a moment. They seemed to be two of those fortunate souls whose deep bond afforded them to understand one another at a glance. With a slight nod from the taller man, the two quickened their pace to find the source of the scream.

* * *

Their search took them in a back alley where they could faintly see a moving shape. The brown-haired man approached the curiously moving creature only to distinguish the figure as that of a young woman sprawled on the ground, her hands fisting what seemed like a very old, moth eaten shawl.

Life had not been kind to the girl. Her blondish hair was lank and dirty, her skin was a mass of red, ravaged by rashes and frostbite, her entire frame was very thin, a clear sign of malnourishment. As he quickly assessed the situation, the man understood why she had been screaming. The girl was with child and it appeared that the child had decided to make its entrance into this despairing world.

"Monsieur, please help me! Please! Please!" the girl croaked, tears and pain evident in her rough voice.

"What is your name, Mademoiselle?" the man asked gently, taking off his coat and putting it over the shoulders of the miserable creature. She looked at him in awe for a second and did not reply, a mixture of distrust and surprise contorting her unfortunate features.

"Anne…" she answered softly, after making sure that the kind gentleman was indeed talking to her.

"Well, mademoiselle Anne, is there somewhere we can take you? Somewhere where they can help you with your… predicament?"

"Nah… I was one of Madame Beaumarchais' girls but she turned me out a couple of months ago after I've started showing…" she answered simply and the man was slightly taken aback at how matter-of-factly this creature treated her misfortune.

Then it dawned on him that for her, a prostitute, it was a fact of life. It wasn't so very unusual for those creatures of the night to be abandoned to fate after they had served their purpose and had fallen with child.

"I see…" he replied, not knowing what else to say and turned back to his companion.

His friend, as straight-laced as ever, was leaning against one of the walls of the buildings surrounding the alley. His blue eyes were fixed upon a spot in the adjoining street and he seemed unaware of what had trespassed between his friend and the girl. He looked as if he was lost in a make-shift world of his own, completely oblivious of the omniscient miserable reality that surrounded him. The man sighed and touched his blond companions' shoulder to attract his attention.

"Enjolras, it appears she is with child and that labour has begun" the man said towards his companion, his voice slightly more nervous than before. His friend merely nodded in understanding. "We need to take her somewhere warm…" he added, hoping that the urgency in his voice would clue Enjolras into how time-sensitive and important the task was.

"Then we should take her to a hospital" Enjolras declared calmly.

"My friend, what hospital? I'm afraid that even the closest hospital is much too far away and, even if it weren't, there is no guarantee that they have a place for her there! She would end up delivering in the street!" he answered despondently, his shoulders sagging slightly.

"Can you help her deliver, Combeferre?" he inquired in an unperturbed tone, as if he was a lawyer trying to get all the facts of a case.

"I…we had some classes … but…I'm not… I've never… "the one called Combeferre stammered after a moment of silence, suddenly faced with the reality of the momentous task he was asked to undertake.

"Etienne, can you help her deliver?" Enjolras reiterated calmly, placing a hand upon his friends' shoulder.

"Yes… I think I can... It's certainly more suitable than the alternative" It seemed that the use of his given name and his friend's calm had given the man confidence and his voice became much steadier.

"Good! Then it's decided. My apartment is closer than yours so we shall take her there, and you will help her through this" he replied as if it was the most natural thing in the world and walked towards the shrivelling creature in the corner.

Combeferre's mind, twisting and turning like a small motor, could find at least fifty pertinent arguments against that seemingly benign plan. What would Enjolras' neighbours say when they heard the screams of childbirth coming from his apartment? What would it do to his friends' reputation? And what about himself? Did he really have the skills to help the young woman?

With a shake of his head, he dismissed his objections. Frankly, it was the best that they could do for her, and not embarking on that particular course of action would mean condemning the poor girl and her child to death in the cold Parisian night.

* * *

Anne looked up from where she was sitting and could see that the other gentleman was coming towards her. When the kind man had spoken to her, she didn't really take a good look at his friend. But, as he was walking towards her, she could not help but be struck by his appearance. With his pale white skin and blond hair, he looked like one of God's angels coming down upon the earth to perform his divine justice. As he approached, she recoiled slightly for she suddenly became very aware of all her inadequacies, of her dirtiness and of her unworthiness to be in such a beautiful persons' presence.

"Mademoiselle, my friend and I are going to take you to my apartment and help you through this ordeal. Do you consent?" Enjolras asked, looking at the girl and taking in her condition. He suddenly felt repulsed. Not by the girl herself, but by the society that allowed such cruelties to happen.

Anne didn't reply immediately for she could hardly find her words. The angel had spoken. The angel had spoken to her. Had she not been able to still feel the biting cold through the tears in her dress, she would have believed herself to be dead. Her mind seemed to be unable to register what the man had asked of her. After all, why would such a gentleman even bother to look at a street rat? Knowing instinctively that he expected an answer, she nodded, not exactly knowing or understanding what she was agreeing to. Seeing her nod, the man bent over and scooped her into his arms, and she could feel every muscle in her body stiffen. His touch seemed to burn her, as if exorcising the myriad of sins that were embedded into her very skin.

The wretched creature now secured into his arms and completely unaware of what his presence was stirring within the girl, Enjolras turned towards Combeferre and motioned him to continue their short walk towards his apartment.

* * *

Enjolras' lodgings were not the grand affair that one would expect from the only son of a rich bourgeois family. Quite the contrary. It was a small, clean dwelling which consisted of a living room, a bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a wash-room, only furnished with the bare necessities and an inordinate amount of books. When the strange trio entered a fire was already lit, probably courtesy of Enjolras' kind landlady, and the sparsely furnished apartment was drenched in both warmth and an inviting light. The owner of the place was quick to place his already whimpering charge in his own bed and turned to face his friend with an inquisitive look.

"What do you need?" he asked Combeferre, who, in all truthfulness, looked slightly lost.

"Um… warm water… and some linen… and a pair of scissors, or something to cut the umbilical cord with… and some thread… " the medical student answered, desperately trying to remember whether it was anything else that he might require.

Now that the girl was in Enjolras' house their ordeal seemed not only far more real, but also far more insane. He had absolutely no practical experience with childbirth. Children were not supposed to be delivered by young men in their early twenties. Children were not supposed to be delivered by men. Unless they were doctors, that is and, at that particular moment, Combeferre was acutely aware of the long way he still had to go until he deserved the esteemed title of "doctor".

"Maybe we should send for a midwife, Julien…" he whispered in a slightly trembling voice, his brown eyes seeking his friend's blue ones.

"Do you know where to find one?" Julien Enjolras asked in a slightly dry tone.

"We could try at the Necker… but at this late hour and with this weather… No... I don't" he shook his head.

"Etienne, women have been doing this for centuries…I am certain we can manage" Enjolras tried, as best as he could, to offer reassurance.

Truth be told, he was as lost as his friend was. The education of a gentleman was more than lacking as far as the intricacies of the birthing process were concerned. To the young man's knowledge, it was just something that happened. Of course, he had a vague idea of how it anatomically happened but nothing more than that. It wasn't something that was spoken freely about and it wasn't something that had ever interested him, to be frank.

With a slightly strained smile, he made his way to heat some water leaving Combeferre and their charge alone in the room.

* * *

"Right… Mademoiselle Anne, if you don't mind, I need to check how soon the child will be coming…" the medical student asked with a slight stutter, his cheeks reddening considerably.

Once again, the wretched girl nodded without being aware of what she was consenting to. All she knew was that a couple of minutes beforehand she had been in the streets, cold biting at her skin, pain engulfing every inch of her body and having neither the hope nor the wish to deliver the miserable creature that demanded to be released into the world. At present, she was in a warm, clean place, on a bed softer than the one she had had at Madame Beaumarchais, with gentlemen who seemed to be kind.

The poor girl's mind was a simple one. She had no notion of modesty and she had no notion of what was proper or not. All that she knew was that the two gentlemen were responsible with her sudden increase in comfort and, like the obedient human being that she was, she was willing to agree to whatever they demanded of her.

* * *

Enjolras stopped dead in his tracks when, after heating the water the medical student had required, he saw said medical student lifting the girl's poor excuse of a dress and taking a look at her private regions. He immediately felt his face heat up with embarrassment for both his friend and the woman in his bed. Of course, he rationally knew that Combeferre needed to be in the proximity of that particular part of female anatomy in order to do his job, but he, chaste soul that he was, could not help but avert his eyes from the entire process.

"I brought the water…" he said softly to attract Combeferre's attention and his friend suddenly emerged from what he was doing, looking very much like a school child scolded by his headmaster.

"Right… thank you, Enjolras… Mademoiselle Anne, it seems you are quite close to delivering. How's the pain? I mean… how often do you feel pain? A few minutes...or.. seconds?" he tried to sound as professional as he could, but didn't really manage as his voice still had quite a panicked quality to it.

"A few minutes, Monsieur…" she answered in a slightly strained voice. She didn't want to upset the two gentlemen by screaming, so instead she grabbed a fistful of the crisp, white linen on the bed.

Hearing the woman speak for the first time since their encounter, Enjolras turned his attention towards her and, for what it seemed like the first time that night, truly looked at her. She was a small scrawny thing with a headful of limp, dirty, blond hair. Her eyes were large and brown. Her skin was blemished with red patches either from the cold or from whatever diseases she might have acquired either from living on the streets or from her profession. Her teeth were surprisingly intact, although crooked and yellow. She also looked very, very young.

How had she come to that abject state?

She was not unlike hundreds of people he passed on the streets daily. She was one of the abased, one of those he fought to liberate from their terrible existence by creating the French Republic. Yet, as strange as it might sound, while he fought for them and was willing to give his life for their cause, Enjolras had very little opportunity to interact with this demeaned group of people. Of course, there was the occasional gamin that he used for information and, of course, he gave speeches to these people, urging them to rebel. But that was where his contact with these people ended.

He knew nothing of their lives, of the sad circumstances that led to their wretched existences, or of their hopes and dreams for the future.

From their café, the Amis spent countless hours talking about the abominable conditions these people lived in. They debated, they offered opinions, and they talked about a world of equality that would lift the wretched from their misery. And yet, he, their leader, often placed on a pedestal by his friends who went as far as to jokingly equate him to a god, realized, while looking at the girl, that he had never actually bothered to talk to one of the abased. Planting the seeds of equality into their minds? Yes. Incite them to rebellion? Yes. But talking to them? No. Never.

Enjolras suddenly felt his cheeks heat up again, and he was quite certain that his shame had nothing to do with the fact that Combeferre was once again examining the girl's private parts.

"Mademoiselle, if you don't mind me asking, how old are you?" Enjolras asked while dragging the only chair in the room next to the unfortunates' bed and sitting gracefully on it.

"Thirteen… or maybe fourteen…I don't really know… When I first went to her, Madame used to say to the gents coming that I was a delightful eleven year old… and that's been about three years ago…" she answered simply, looking at the blond man with a slightly bewildered expression. Why would such a gentleman wish to know her age of all things?

For his part, Enjolras could feel his heart, that organ most of his friends could swear it was made of marble, almost physically stop. How could a child of eleven years of age be forced to sell her body? What kind of demented individual would agree to have any sort of relations with a child? And what kind of society were they truly living in if it allowed a child to be sold like nothing more than a piece of meat?

Of course, he had known that the life of those sad creatures at the lower levels of society was terrible. But at that very moment, when he had an unfortunate child in his bed, ironically giving birth to a child of her own, he understood that there was precious little that he knew about what "terrible" truly meant.

His blue, unforgiving eyes blazed with anger and he swore, with a renewed fire, to bring into being the egalitarian society of the Republic.

"Monsieur, the pain is now coming more quickly… " the rough, meek voice of the girl addressed his friend who was busying himself with some trivialities next to the bed.

"Do you feel the urge to… um… push?" Combeferre asked a bit unsure of how to phrase it, to neither offend the girl or his friend's sensibilities.

"Not yet… but it hurts really bad…" she answered in a strained voice, her thin hands trying to once again grab the thin linen on the bed and finding that it did little to distract her from the pain.

Not offering any word by way of explanation, Enjolras calmly took one of the girl's blemished hands in his own perfectly white one and allowed her to squeeze it as hard as she needed.

* * *

Etienne Combeferre was stunned.

He had known from the first moment he heard his friend talk to the girl that something had subtly changed within him, but he had never expected such a display of support from his usually reserved companion.

Coming from the same city in the South, the two men had forged a close bond when they had first met in Paris. He had come understand Enjolras' moods and feelings at a glance, for although their other friends could swear that he only had two predispositions: indifferent and passionate about the revolution, Combeferre knew better. He could tell when Julien was amused by the slight flicker in his eyes, he could tell when he was disappointed by the way in which a shadow seemed to cross his features for less than a second, he could tell when he was in particularly conflicted mood, by the way in which his forehead seemed to crease a little.

The moment that Julien, who often shied away from physical contact, offered comfort to the girl, was the moment that he truly comprehended what was happening within his friends' mind.

Unlike himself, who, as it was expected of a medical student, came into contact with people from all walks of life during his internships in various Parisian hospitals, Enjolras was very sheltered in that respect. Being by nature a guarded individual, he did not enjoy social situations of any kind. His contact with the world outside the university and the café was limited to the public speeches he held. Enjolras knew about the wretchedness of the world without having ever encountered it. He knew about the plight of the poor from books and articles. He fought for the unfortunate not out of compassion but because logic dictated that being equal was more just.

All that had changed the moment the poor, the wretched, the unfortunate took the form of a young girl and were placed into his friends' very bed. The abased were no longer a mass of faceless individuals, numbers on blank pieces of paper. They were Anne.

"Monsieur, I think the baby wants to come out… " Combeferre's contemplations were suddenly stopped dead in their tracks by the voice of the girl, who was harshly squeezing at his friends' hand, turning the pale skin red.

"Right…" he turned towards the girl and once again spread her legs apart, immune, in his panic, to the shame such an action would normally make him feel "Whenever you feel the pain coming, please push as hard as you can…"

* * *

Neither man could accurately describe what happened in the following several minutes. Everything seemed to be a dazzling flurry of activity, while the girl, forgoing her kind resolution of not screaming for fear of upsetting the two men, yelled at the top of her lungs.

Combeferre was mainly focused on getting the child out, who, despite the malnourished state of the mother, seemed, by some sort divine miracle, to be fully formed and of appropriate size. He tried to remain as calm as possible even when blood started to gush out of the poor woman as she desperately tried to rid herself of the child that was growing in her womb.

For his part, Enjolras watched the entire process with a certain degree of curiosity, being quite unnerved by the screams the girl, Anne, was producing. When he saw blood, he was at first dismissive. Back in July he had fought at the barricades and had seen enough violence to make him accustomed to it. Yet, when he saw the amount of blood that was coming out of her he could not help but feel slightly anxious. Even to his utterly untrained eye, such a high amount of blood seemed abnormal.

When Anne slightly arched her back and gave a final, forceful push accompanied by an equal mighty scream, Enjolras instinctively gripped her hand tighter. For a moment the room was eerily silent and time seemed to have stopped.

Wild-eyed and hands trembling slightly, Combeferre emerged from his place at the foot of the bed, with a small infant in his arms, still attached to his mother by the umbilical cord. He slapped the infant on the back and the room was once again drenched in screams, now the screams of a child.

Stunned, Enjolras turned to face the woman who had given birth to the child only to find that the hand which had so forcefully gripped his, was limp. For the second time that night, his heart seemed to stop.

"Etienne… I think something is wrong…" Enjolras said in a slightly trembling voice.

The fact that his friend had not only used his given name but also that his normally controlled voice was shaking, made the medical student immediately turn his attention from the child he was holding to his friend. With expert movements, he cut the connection between mother and child and tied it as best as he could with the thread before covering it with a piece of linen which seemed to be torn from one of Enjolras' own shirts.

"Julien…" He gently motioned for his friend to take the wailing child so that he could attend to the mother.

* * *

Enjolras was prepared for many things. He was prepared to lead a revolution. He was prepared to die for Patria. He was even prepared to lead his whole life as a pro-bono lawyer. Yet, he was utterly unprepared to hold a child.

When Combeferre unceremoniously gave him the infant to hold, for the first time in many months, he felt fear grip at his soul. Not for himself, obviously, but for the wailing child in his arms. That poor child who at that very moment was so innocent, so unaware of what was happening around him and the kind of world he had been born into.

Or maybe he was aware. Maybe his screams were a form of protest at being born into such a wretched place. Maybe he instinctively knew that his life would be one of misery and trials beyond belief.

Feeling a rush of protectiveness, which was normally only directed towards his friends, Enjolras wanted to make the child stop crying. He wanted to maintain his innocence a little bit longer. Unconsciously, he started to rock the babe, his blue, piercing gaze fixed on the little scrunched face. Soon enough, the crying stopped, the baby was lulled to sleep, and the room once again became early quiet. He turned his eyes towards his friend who was now sitting on the chair he had vacated, his head in his palms.

"Etienne?!" he inquired softly as to not wake the babe in his arms but received no reply. Combeferre turned his head and, behind the lenses of the round spectacles, he could see that the man's eyes were brimming with tears. He suddenly understood.

Unconsciously, Enjolras tightened his grip around the little one in his arms, and for a moment was irrationally grateful that the child was not awake to see his mother dead, already turning an unpleasant shade of blue, and the large stain of blood which was so gruesomely contrasting with the crisp white linens.

He shifted his eyes from the grotesque picture of death to the new life he was carrying. He took in the little hands and fingers, the small feet and toes, the round head and soft cheeks. How could such a perfect little being be born out of such misery?

Feeling the inexplicable urge to protect the child from being tainted by the picture of death, he wordlessly carried him into the other room.

* * *

As he sat on one of two large armchairs in his living room, Enjolras felt immensely grateful that his landlady had had the foresight to lit up the fire in both rooms, not only in his bedroom. It would not do for the infant to be cold. To make certain that it did not happen, he took one of the small blankets that he sometimes used during winter while studying at his desk and inexpertly wrapped it around the child. The baby opened his murky blue eyes, but did not wail. Instead he seemed to be quite content to be warm and held against the man's chest.

Enjolras looked into the eyes of the baby and he could feel his heart constrict painfully. If the child's future was bleak when his mother was alive, now, not having anyone in the world to care for him, it was absolutely terrible. It was certain death.

"He is sleeping" Enjolras said softly after a couple of minutes, hearing his friend come in.

"He probably likes listening to your heartbeat…" Combeferre answered tiredly, taking the one other armchair in the room while watching his friend closely.

In the flickering light of the fire, Enjolras' features seemed to have lost some of their marble-like quality. Instead they seemed softer, somewhat more human. His head was bent down, his blond curls falling on his forehead, his blue eyes looking at the child he was carrying. His eyes, often so very intense and passionate, seemed to carry a different light. They seemed a bit gentler as if he didn't dare to direct his passion towards the innocent soul he was holding. For a moment, Combeferre drank in this picture, trying to etch its details into his memory forever.

He realized, not without a certain amount of dread, that considering their activities, this particular instance would probably the one and only moment he would see his friend hold an infant. Such a pity, for it seemed to suit him.

"We should at least name him…" Combeferre said softly and his friend nodded, without turning his attention from the child.

"Francois" Enjolras whispered, his white hand gently caressing the face of the child.

"Frenchman?" Combeferre tacitly approved, considering Enjolras' devotion to his country that would be the most telling name he could give to a baby boy.

"Free man," Enjolras amended softly, his hand still caressing the baby's head, and Combeferre had to turn his eyes from the scene for he felt them brim with tears yet again.


	2. 16th of December 1830, Part I

Nothing in life is ever certain. Nothing except that no matter how long the journey takes, it ends in death.

Nothing in life is ever just. For some, the journey might be pleasant. For others, rest might only be found in the unyielding eternal sleep, the mound of dirt that covers the body, the stillness of the corpse. Death is the ultimate form of democracy.

Someone as partial to philosophical platitudes as Combeferre could not help but notice the aforementioned in light of what had just happened. Especially while he watched his best friend fall into a restless sleep, the child still firmly in place on his chest.

Testament to the ambiguous nature of life, nothing that had happened during the previous day would have hinted at the predicament they were in that very moment. Nothing.

It had been a perfectly ordinary day. He had gone to classes together with Joly. He had had lunch with Enjolras and Courfeyrac. They had met Les Amis for a round of discussions later during the evening. At that point in time, the only thing which had been plaguing his mind had been where to find a trusted printer to print the new pamphlets Enjolras had requested.

Then they met the girl and his comparatively simple life was turned upside down by a flurry of activities which resulted in a corpse and an infant whose life depended on the decisions the two young men would make.

For a moment, Combeferre fought the urge to turn his eyes form the pair sleeping on the armchair. He could honestly say that he had never seen Enjolras as emotionally invested in another human being as he had been in the past few hours. Even now, in sleep, as he held little Francois in his arms his features held a strange sort of gentleness. It was as if some instinctual need to protect the little infant had been awakened within the younger man. He guessed it to be some sort of animalistic tendency to ensure the survival of the species. Combeferre, who had always secretly thought that Enjolras' detachment towards living things was slightly detrimental to his friend's wellbeing, could not say that he disapproved.

That being said, the appearance of the child in their lives did bring about a multitude of problems. For starters, there was the matter of what to do with the child. His first thought was that they should leave the child to a foundling house. Yet, it was common knowledge that the circumstances of hospices in Paris, or in any part of France for that matter, were not good. In fact, leaving an infant in the care of such an establishment was tantamount to condemning him to death. Hospices were cold, dirty and generally unpleasant places where half the infants met with an untimely death before their first year of life was over, mostly because of unsanitary conditions and starvation. Wet nurses were in short supply in such a place and while they were supposed to care only for one child, they often ended up trying to feed four to five new-borns. This meant that some of the infants did not have access to breast milk and succumbed to starvation. Even if the child did manage to get nourishment, foundling houses were ridden with infectious diseases like syphilis and small pox which considerably decreased the infant's chance at survival.

If he was right about Enjolras' newly found tentative attachment to Francois, he suspected his younger friend would be reluctant to leave the child in such a dangerous environment. Not that he, himself would be too thrilled about it either. He was more than unwilling to condemn an innocent human being to a life which was perhaps more miserable than the child's mother's had been.

That particular line of thought suddenly reminded Combeferre that he had a more pressing matter to attend to. After all, he could not take decisions regarding Francois' future on his own. Enjolras would have to get involved, and maybe his friend, always so logical, could find a better solution than he could.

He rose from his own armchair and found, with some surprise, that his legs were numb. For how long had he been sitting there? Minutes? Hours? He turned towards the window and he could spy the first rays of dawn showing themselves on the dark sky. With a tired sigh, he took one last look at the two figures sleeping on the armchair and could not help but offer a genuine, albeit worn-out, smile.

Enjolras seemed to have finally fallen into deep sleep. His sharp features, always slightly tense, were much more relaxed, the creases of his wide forehead almost invisible now. His blond hair fell in curls around his face and his mouth was parted slightly in sleep. On the man's rather thin chest, little Francois was contentedly propped by his protector's arms, the dark blanket falling almost entirely from his tiny form. One of his small hands was clutching at his friend's jacket while the other rested comfortably under Enjolras' chin.

Combeferre took the dark blanket and covered both of them as gently as he could so as not to disturb their sleep. Then he made his way towards the other room in the apartment and his mood sobered instantly.

* * *

Ever since he had been five years old, Etienne Combeferre had wanted to be a doctor. It was a strange choice of a career in one so young, especially when most of his playmates wished to be pirates, princes or fairy-tale heroes. It was especially odd because doctors of the time mostly lead long lives plagued with the frustration of only being able to offer moderate relief to their patients. Of course, young Etienne could not have known that. In his mind he associated the image of a doctor with the only person he completely respected to the point of worship: his father. It was because of his father, his own personal fairy-tale hero, that he had unequivocally decided to pursue this particular path.

Not once, not even when the object of his motivation had died in a pointless carriage accident, had Combeferre doubted his career choice. That is, until now.

As he stood vigil in the room that his friend had so graciously offered to the young woman, Combeferre found that he could not tear his eyes away from the prone figure on the bed. It was such a different picture from the one he had witnessed in the other room that the young student could not help but feel a pang of pain course through every fibre of his being.

The apartment seemed much too abruptly split in two: one part the world of the living, the other the realm of the dead.

The girl hadn't been particularly beautiful in life and she certainly wasn't making an attractive corpse. Her pale face was already tinged with blue, her cheeks were more sunken in death than in life, and her jaw was set, a trademark sign that rigor mortis was taking its natural course. The vivid red of the blood on the sheets had dulled to an unappealing brown colour and was no longer contrasting with the woman's skin. Instead, it seemed to be blending with it.

The young doctor took one of the few remaining clean cloths and started the painstaking process of cleaning the girl as best as he could.

In a twisted sort of way, Combeferre found the process of scrubbing dirt and dried blood off the girl's already rigid legs soothing. Tackling particularly difficult stains offered him a momentary distraction from the quandaries that had plagued his mind for hours. He could not quite understand why the girl's death was affecting him. After all, he had seen death before, both at the barricades of July and during his various internships in Parisian , what had happened the night before was in no way extraordinary. Women died in childbirth, it was a fact of life.

Maybe it was the fact that this had truly been the only moment in his life when a defenceless creature had placed her life in his hands? Before, when dealing with wounds and patients, he had always had someone looking behind his shoulder, making certain he did not make mistakes. This particular time he had been alone. That simple minded girl who was now reduced to a rigid, cold, mass of flesh, had trusted him implicitly with the only thing she had to offer: her a certain extent, although he knew there had been nothing more that he could have done, Combeferre felt like he had somewhat betrayed that trust.

Finished with the girl's legs, he started cleaning her dark blond hair, wondering if she had ever cleaned it herself.

It wasn't the fact that the girl had died which made Combeferre doubt his abilities as a future doctor, but the feeling of remorse the situation roused within his chest. Feeling remorse, guilt even, went against everything he had been taught. Time and time again, his professors and supervisors had told him that a doctor should not get in any way attached to a patient. Patients were nothing more than faceless individuals whose lives and deaths were, on an emotional level, absolutely inconsequential. Combeferre reckoned that in certain respects, such a doctrine had some merit. Medicine was a science where the balance of failure and success was severely skewed towards failure. Doctors experienced the death of a patient more often than they experienced his complete recovery. It would not do to mourn every single patient. It would not do to feel guilty and second guess oneself.

Thus, if his heart was laden with an inappropriate amount of guilt because of the death of one woman in childbirth, Combeferre could not help but wonder if he was truly suited for his profession. That being said, Combeferre was very aware that it mattered little whether he was suited to be a doctor or not. His life, their lives, were dangerous ones. Of course, none of his friends, not even their marble leader, dared to admit it outright.

In all truthfulness, the chance that he would actually get to fully practice his chosen profession was rather small, if the political situation continued as it was.

Blood from the piece of cloth and dirt form the girl's hair turned the water in the basin into an unappealing greyish mixture. Combeferre decided to change the water before proceeding further. He went to Enjolras' washroom where he found another bucket of clean water. He emptied the basin and, for a second, was inclined to heat the ice-cold water in the bucket before using it to clean the girl. Then he realized that it would not would not be able to feel it anyway.

Back in July, they had fought for a republic but they had gotten a new king. While he liked to think the best of people, Louis Philippe seemed hardly more competent than his predecessor and this would undoubtedly stir displeasure within both the population and Les Amis de l'ABC. Furthermore, Enjolras was not as conciliatory as Combeferre himself and would accept no compromise. For his friend, it did not matter if the ruler was called Bonaparte, Charles or Louis Philippe. As long as France was not a republic, the system needed to be overturned.

While he did not share his friend's so very zealous behavior, Combeferre knew that he would fight for the French Republic, not only because of a deep sense of loyalty towards Enjolras but also because of his own values which were geared towards an egalitarian system. As such, the issue was not whether they would fight or not. It was  _when_  they would fight. Potential death or life imprisonment considerably lowered one's chances to fully be a doctor.

Combeferre would have continued to ponder the realities of his life had he not noticed that he was already finished with what he had been doing with his hands. He had managed to clean the girl to the best of his abilities. Unfortunately, he had been unable to do much about the wretched, greyish dress she was wearing and the blood with which it was imbibed. He resolved he would go buy a new dress before they decided what to do with the body. Of course, it was wasteful but he did feel that, after all the misery she had suffered in life, the girl deserved the courtesy to be buried wearing something decent.

Outside, the feeble winter sun was shining and Combeferre wondered for a second what change would this new day bring in their lives. Yet, before he could get lost in another round of platitudes, the young doctor heard the sound of loud knocking at the apartment door, muffled voices and the sharp scream of a baby.

It seemed he would find out what the new day brought sooner than expected.


	3. 16th of December 1830, Part II

Despite often being misjudged as being flippant, Courfeyrac was a rather observant man. While he could not boast Combeferre's intelligence or Enjolras' gift for public speaking, Courfeyrac did have a gift which was uniquely his. He knew a multitude of things about his friends which might seem irrelevant at first but which had won him the title of being the "centre of Les Amis de L'ABC". For example, he knew which wine Grantaire had a partiality for, which considering that the other man drank everything and anything was no easy feat. He knew which seemed to be Jehan's preferred places to seek inspiration. He knew when to treat Marius to dinner when he could not afford to pay, even if the younger man failed to mention it.

In the long list of observations that he had made over the years about his friends, there was one in particular which had Courfeyrac marching towards Enjolras' apartment at the ungodly hour of eight o'clock in the morning. It was fairly simple, really: Enjolras was more likely to agree to whatever Courfeyrac was demanding if he asked him early in the morning.

While not the type of person who took hours to be fully awake, Courfeyrac knew that his friend could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be described as a morning person. On the contrary. In the morning Enjolras' reaction time and reasoning capabilities were severely reduced. This, in turn, made it less likely for Courfeyrac's requests to be destroyed by his friend's unyielding logic.

In all truthfulness, the "centre of the revolution" would not have taken advantage of Apollo's weakness if the situation had not been so very dire. In fact, the situation was so very terrible that Courfeyrac had resolved to sacrifice precious hours of sleep to have the chance to successfully make his request.

Rene de Courfeyrac had been living in Paris for more than five years. There, he had learned two very important things: firstly, discarding the offending particle "de" from his name would be beneficial to his image as a fashionable dandy and secondly, he was thoroughly unsuited for his chosen profession, or better said, chosen university course.

Law school was not exactly Courfeyrac's preferred place to spend either his mornings or his afternoons. Quite frankly, he found the entire experience of being a law student entirely unappealing. That being said, he had neither the application and dedication required of a medical student, nor the technical capabilities to be a polytechnician. As such, he had persisted in the unfortunate pursuit of becoming a lawyer.

That is not to say that his logic by elimination had satisfied his father in his position as the (somewhat) reluctant sponsor of his studies.

If he was being honest, even he had to admit that taking six years to finish a degree which normally took three was pushing it. Of course he could justify his lack of results as being due to the more covert, and far more fulfilling, activities he indulged in. After all, how many in his day and age could truly claim that they managed to fully and successfully complete their studies while trying arduously to overturn the monarchy?

In fact, he could think only of one… or maybe two. But it would not be fair to give them as examples, for one was decidedly a god and the other a genius. Despite his explanations, justifications and pleas, his father's last letter had made it plainly clear that he was expecting results and he was expecting them fast. Curse bourgeois mercantilist mentality!

It was with this particular problem that the young revolutionary made his way towards the house of the god himself in attempt to convince him to bestow his grace on his ever–faithful worshiper.

To put it simply, Courfeyrac needed to successfully coerce Enjolras into allowing him to borrow his notes for the sole course he had deemed to take during the trimester.

Enjolras opened his eyes, slightly disturbed by the light that had suddenly assaulted them. He blinked rapidly and tried, to the best of the abilities of his sleep-numbed mind, to assess his surroundings. He had apparently fallen asleep in front of the fire, the infant quietly resting on his chest, one of his tiny hands grabbing at the collar of his opened coat. He wondered for a second for how long he had slept and then took note of the insistent knocking on his door. With as much gentleness as he could muster, he maneuvered the baby off him and placed him in the armchair, remarking in the process that Combeferre was nowhere in sight. Mentally wondering where his friend was, he went to attend to the person who seemed to be so very desperate to speak to him.

As soon as he opened the door, Enjolras' first instinct was to promptly close it. He suppressed that urge for the sake of common courtesy. Still, he could not say that he was pleased to see Courfeyrac standing in his doorway that early in the morning.

"Enjolras, mon ami, you seem rather frazzled this fine morning… Is everything alright?" Courfeyrac offered a wolfish grin noticing his friend's less than composed appearance.

Before Enjolras answered, he pondered the question for a second. Was everything alright? He was a twenty-four years' old revolutionary having a defenceless infant in his living room, a dead mother in his bedroom, a best friend who was not in his line of sight and absolutely no idea what to do next.

By all standards, no, everything was decidedly not alright.

"Of course, Courfeyrac" He replied dryly, hoping rather irrationally, that his friend would understand the subtle hint that he was not welcomed, and that he could be left to gather his thoughts as to what to do next in peace.

" Well, mon ami, I came to discuss a rather sensitive issue with you …" Courfeyrac replied, not quite understanding why he was being kept in the doorway.

He would have probably said more, but the freshly-named Francois, deprived of his protector's arms and suddenly remembering that he was hungry, decided to make his presence known by wailing loudly.

Knowing logically that there was no human way to hide the baby from the rather baffled guest, Enjolras stepped aside and politely motioned him to enter the apartment. Courfeyrac followed him into the living area, slightly stunned as to what was happening. There, hoping that the child would calm down as he had done before, Enjolras took the baby in his arms and started to rock him slightly before the wide eyes of the other man.

There were preciously few things that could stun Rene Courfeyrac. In fact, after experiencing the nightlife of Paris to the fullest, he would have said, with certitude, that the number of things that could surprise him was more or less nil.

Yet, Enjolras holding an infant was one of those few, rare instances which rendered Courfeyrac speechless. A million questions and possible situations raced through the young man's mind but he could not cohesively give voice to them. Did Enjolras have a mistress that they did not know of? Impossible! The other man was so devoted to his Patria that no woman could even hope to stir his interest. Was the child the product of a trivial night of pleasure? Unlikely. In fact, Enjolras had never as much glanced in the direction of the fairer sex with anything remotely resembling desire.

"Enjolras, my friend, if you had come for advice from yours truly, you would not be in such a predicament" Courfeyrac settled for what seemed to be as the most plausible explanation in his mind and offered a wolfish grin towards his friend.

Enjolras, child in arms, took a moment to reconcile what Courfeyrac had said with what the situation was. He found it impossible. After all, how could Courfeyrac's advice have in any way prevented the uncomfortable, troublesome, situation he found himself in? He then realized that his flamboyant friend didn't know all that had transpired and, of course, jumped to what seemed to be the most logical conclusion. Courfeyrac believed the child to be his.

The young leader of the revolution felt his cheeks redden for a second. Despite being a gifted speaker, he was by no means comfortable with delving into such sensitive subjects. Although he did not mind his more experienced friends discuss the liaisons they had with women in his presence, he never actively participated in such talks, finding them neither interesting nor particularly useful.

"I am afraid you labour under the misconception that the child is mine, Courfeyrac" he chose his words carefully as if to stir clear of anything that might give his friend cause to pursue that particularly uncomfortable line of questioning.

"Mon ami, I am hurt! Do you feel the need to hide your transgression from me? You should know better than that…After all, who am I to judge?" Courfeyrac replied with mock-hurt in his voice, offering a playful wink.

"No, Courfeyrac, you are erroneous… The child is not mine. Combeferre and I helped his mother deliver him last night" Enjolras quickly decided that he would rather suffer the indignity of admitting to being present during childbirth than having his friend continue to believe that he had sired a bastard. It was, by far, the lesser evil of the two.

Courfeyrac stood silent for a second and searched his leaders' blue gaze for a sign of deceit. He found none. Then he promptly started to laugh.

Somehow he could not imagine the two of them being able to properly deliver a baby. Enjolras was far too enraptured in the notions of Jacobin virtue to not be ashamed at imposing upon a woman's most private moment and Combeferre, although an excellent medical student, would be far too nervous without supervision. He suspected that what had transpired between the two the night before must have been a scene worthy of stage of the Opera Comique.

"Where is the unfortunate woman?" Courfeyrac asked, knowing that he had to meet the brave soul who had allowed the two to assist her in her hardship.

"She is dead" Enjolras replied in a sharp, cutting tone, and his friend sobered up immediately. He knew Courfeyrac to be rather flippant most of the times and he generally didn't mind it, but he would not allow him to make light of what had happened the previous night.

"I am sorry, I did not know…" the dandy followed properly chastised.

It was when Courfeyrac was prepared to make his lengthy and entirely sincere apology, that Combeferre decided to make his presence within the apartment known. If Enjolras looked somewhat distressed by the events, Combeferre looked worse. He was positively gloomy. Courfeyrac immediately understood that what had happened had taken a greater toll on the young medical student than on their leader. He did not know the particulars, but, assessing the situation, he supposed that while Enjolras had concerned himself with the welfare of the child, Combeferre had been left to care for the mother. How and why the woman had died, he did not know but his friend seemed to take it, on a certain level, as a personal failure.

"Combeferre, Enjolras was making me acquainted with the circumstances you find yourselves in. Is there anything I can do to help?" he offered benevolently and received a grateful smile in return.

"We need to find a way to dispose of the body…" Combeferre said tiredly, lifting his spectacles for a second to rub his eyes. "And a dress… but I will deal with that"

Of course, there was another concern the two, now three, men had to deal with. And this particular concern was currently being rocked to sleep by the otherwise emotionless leader of the revolution.

"What about the child?" Courfeyrac, the least emotionally invested, dared to ask the question the two had been indubitably thinking about for several hours.

"We could take him to Saint Vincent-de-Paul…" Combeferre offered in a subdued tone after several moments of absolute silence.

Saint Vincent –de-Paul. An over-crowded place where little Francois' chance for survival was almost equal to that of being left on the streets.

In his short twenty four years of life, Enjolras had done many questionable things which might have earned him the attribute of being "terrible". Yet, he had never willingly killed someone. By accident, maybe… In the confusion of the barricades it was sometimes hard to choose where to shoot your enemies and killing in the name of the republic was more than justified. But, even then, whenever he could make a conscious decision, he had chosen to incapacitate rather than kill.

He valued life. Especially the life of a child. Especially the life of a defenceless infant whose only fault had been that of being born within the wrong social class. Somehow, Enjolras was reluctant to break this particular honourable streak and condemn Francois to death.

Of course, keeping the infant was impractical and inconvenient. It also put into question their reputations as most people would have the same misguided idea that Courfeyrac had had. But endangering human life over such trivialities seemed too cruel. They would not keep the child forever, but they would keep him until they could find him a good home where he would get a fair chance at leading a proper life.

"We will also need a wet nurse" Enjolras declared, his tone having a certain authoritative quality to it.

"Enjolras, I understand that you…" Combeferre started but whatever protests he might have had died on his lips when his friend turned his blue, steady gaze upon him.

"We will need a wet nurse" he reiterated and turned his eyes from his second in command to his third "Do you think you could help with that, Courfeyrac?"

"Of course. I will immediately go ask Grantaire" the dandy replied in all seriousness, the only indication that he knew the impact his words would have being the slightly mischievous glint in his green eyes.

Grantaire was a name which was taboo around Enjolras. It wasn't that the young leader hated the other man per see. It was more that the other man seemed to do everything in his power to ruffle Enjolras' proverbial feathers. From long-winded, drunken speeches about everything and nothing to the overall cynicism against republican ideals that imbued his every word, Grantaire had apparently made his life's mission to annoy Enjolras. At least, that was what the younger man unequivocally believed. As such, when the drunkard did not inflict his presence on the blond man, there was an unspoken rule among Les Amis that Grantaire's name was not to be mentioned in his company.

"Grantaire? And pray how would he be able to help you find a wet-nurse?" Enjolras replied, striving to keep his voice as even and indifferent as possible.

"He does frequent a lot of the least wealthy parts of Paris, you know? A lot of women living there would be ready to feed a child in exchange for somesous. Of course we could also ask Marius who lives in that wretched place… The name eludes me right now…" Courfeyrac explained as best as he could.

"The Gorbeau house" Combeferre supplied helpfully.

"Indeed. But this is Marius we are discussing. We probably would have to first explain to the poor innocent soul what a wet-nurse is before asking him to find one. And of course, we could ask one of our mistresses, but I was under the distinct impression that you wanted the affair to be as discrete as possible and we would naturally be unable to prevent any rumours being spread in the future by a scorned woman or two…" Courfeyrac finished pleading his case and felt, for the first time in five years of higher education, that he might not be so entirely unsuited for the profession of lawyer.

"So Grantaire it is" Enjolras said levelly, his voice having a slightly similar inflection to that of a convict walking to the gallows.

"I will go let him know" Courfeyrac offered a bright smile that Enjolras suddenly itched to remove " I am certain he will be thrilled to know that he can be of aid to his God" he mocked as he walked towards the door.

"Courfeyrac?" he called after his friend who promptly turned at the sound of his name "As you are delegating the matter of the wet-nurse to Grantaire, would you be so kind as to take care of the funeral arrangements?"

For a second, Courfeyrac wanted to protest, arranging funerals not exactly being his favourite activity, but as he looked at Enjolras' dangerously glinting blue eyes, he could not help but feel that the only thing preventing his friend from happily strangling him was the child in his arms. Having at least a modicum of self-preservation, he nodded complacently.

Only when he was outside in the bitter Parisian weather, did Courfeyrac realize that he had yet to beg the notes he needed off Enjolras. Considering that he had practically made the man indebted to Grantaire, of all people, he could say that his chances of ever getting those notes were equal to almost zero.

Groaning loudly, lamenting this turn of events and proclaiming that fate was indeed unjust, he made his way towards the only funeral house he knew.


	4. 16th of December 1830, Part III

Often people thought that, in light of the massive amount of alcohol he consumed on a daily basis, Grantaire was used to the inevitable after-effects of such an excess. They couldn't be more wrong. While his body had grown accustomed to the intake of wine, absinth and a myriad of other liquids of the alcoholic variety, and he did build a remarkable tolerance to alcohol, the inevitable hangovers only seemed to grow more and more vicious with every drunken escapade. Thus, it was with a severely pounding head that a bleary-eyed Grantaire opened the door of his humble abode, only after muttering some particularly vicious curses under his breath.

"Good Morning, my friend…" Courfeyrac offered benevolently, an indulgent smile playing at the corners of his lips "Or should I say afternoon?"

Grantaire took a moment to process what was happening, his throbbing head protesting at the influx of thought. He had to admit that it was quite a surprise to have Courfeyrac on his doorstep. While the man was perhaps one the most accepting in the group and sometimes went as far as to join Grantaire in his wine-induced antics, the times he had visited him in his sparsely furnished apartment in their three years of acquaintance could be counted on one hand.

They weren't exactly friends. In fact, as far as the entire group of Les Amis de l'ABC was concerned, Grantaire didn't think himself to be friends with any of them. They did accept him in their midst and allowed him to spew his vitriol whenever he saw fit, but the fact that he didn't share their convictions had always made him an outsider. As such, he could only wonder why Courfeyrac would voluntarily want to visit him.

"Are you going to let me in or shall we carry out our discussion here?" the man asked, slightly miffed that, for the second time in the span of several hours, he was being kept on the doorstep. Grantaire offered a non-committal grunt and moved aside to allow him entrance.

Courfeyrac had been to the apartment only a limited number of times and each time he was struck by how neat the place was. Like Enjolras' abode, Grantaire's was furnished with only what was strictly necessary. Yet, while Enjolras' choice of furniture, or lack thereof, had been made out of an abhorrence for excess and adherence to Jacobin values, Courfeyrac suspected that Grantaire had made his out of more practical considerations of a monetary nature. What the man did to gain money, he did not know, and incidentally he was ashamed at such a lapse in knowledge, but he doubted that he had some wealthy relatives that were financing his sojourn in Paris.

That being said, for all his erratic behaviour, Grantaire seemed to prefer having his personal environment very clean and well-ordered. While he knew for a fact that the man did not possess a personal maid, he somehow found it hard to conciliate the image of the drunkard who liked to openly declare his admiration towards Greek deities with that of a man on his knees and elbows scrubbing the floors.

"Why are you here, Courfeyrac?" Grantaire demanded in a gruff voice, his tongue rather heavy. He was not exactly in a mood for visitors.

"Oh, mon ami, as direct as ever…" Courfeyrac joked. While under the influence of wine, Grantaire was by no means direct. On the contrary. But a hung-over, drink-deprived Grantaire was an entirely different matter. And, by the look of the blood-shot blue eyes and curly dark hair which was messier than usual, he could infer that not only was his friend sober but he was also valiantly battling a massive hangover. "To cut straight to the point then… I need a wet-nurse"

"I guess your philandering finally caught up with you… It was bound to happen sooner or later" Grantaire grumbled, his head lowered and stare fixed on his dark wood floorboards.

"Oh, it is not I who needs the services of a wet nurse. Enjolras does" he chose to ignore the quip and not rise to the bait of defending his preferred extra-curricular activities.

At the sound of Enjolras' name, Grantaire raised his head so fast that Courfeyrac thought his neck would snap. A look of utter disbelief graced the ragged features, the murky blue eyes looking at him carefully as if trying to find some sign of deceit. When he could find none, Grantaire laughed; a harsh, almost bark-like sound which filled the small room for several moments.

"And thus the mighty god falls from grace and joins the human rabble" he offered by way of reply, his gruff voice seeming somewhat bitter.

The first time Grantaire had seen Enjolras had been more than three years before, days after the funeral of La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, while the blond man had been addressing the masses. He could not remember what Enjolras had spoken about that day. Probably about the character of that great man. Probably about social reform. Probably about taxes and poverty. But he doubted anyone could clearly remember all that he had said.

For all his qualities as a gifted speaker, Enjolras' words were often too much for the masses to follow. He was always above simple human beings. He was always on a pedestal. He was always in a world far higher than what mere mortals could reach. His words were laden with deep meanings and, more often than not, failed to penetrate the minds of those of simple education. Yet, they did not fail to enter their hearts.

True enough, Grantaire could not remember what Enjolras had spoken about on that day, but he could perfectly remember the way it had made him feel.

Grantaire was an artist. Not a very successful one, but an artist nonetheless. He appreciated beauty and, like every creature condemned to darkness, craved light. While seeing him speak, it took him less than a moment to understand that Enjolras was undeniably the embodiment of the two. The man's golden curls raised by the wind, his blue eyes which pierced into the very depths of one's soul, and the surety of his voice had ingrained Enjolras' image of light and beauty into his mind. It had been then and there that Grantaire decided he loved Enjolras.

He was not in love with him, for he would not dare to bring such disrespect towards his leader, but he loved him. He loved him in the same way the moth loves the flame, the blind loves light and the dead loves life. He bore towards him the same reverence one might bear towards a god.

Thus Courfeyrac's declaration cut deep within Grantaire's soul for even the suggestion that Enjolras might be somehow human, might somehow be prone to frailties of the flesh, made the drunkard shudder.

"The child is not his, my friend" Courfeyrac offered calmly. Quite frankly, a more devious part of him had wanted to allow Grantaire to harbour under that particular misconception, if only to get back at Enjolras for the depressive nature of the almost two hours he had spent in the funeral parlour that morning.

However, something prevented him from acting on his mean streak. Courfeyrac could not exactly put his finger on it, but perhaps it was the way Grantaire had looked when he realized that Enjolras might have been even remotely human.

In his honest opinion, the reverence that Grantaire had for their leader, esteem noticed by all but said leader who seemed to disregard it as simple mockery, was more than a little absurd. True enough, Enjolras was respected by all of them and he was, to a certain extent, the reason they had chosen to join Les Amis de l'ABC. But none of them were prone to deifying the man, none of them worshiped him and none of them would die for him and him alone. While they would willingly die for the cause they believed in, he suspected that Grantaire would be more than willing to die for Enjolras himself.

To a certain extent, Courfeyrac admired such a degree of devotion.

"Not his?" the man asked in a low voice, his blue eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion.

"Apparently Enjolras and Combeferre ended up in quite the predicament last night and had to help a young woman deliver. The poor soul passed away, leaving the child in their care." The law student explained dismissingly, keen to enlist his friend's help as soon as possible.

"And Enjolras is keeping the child?" the man inquired with a certain degree of surprise that certainly mirrored Courfeyrac's own sentiment regarding the situation.

"For the time being. That's why he requires your help to find a wet-nurse" he further explained, emphasizing the word 'help' and looking closely to observe the effect it had on his friend.

Grantaire was dumb-struck. The prospect of Enjolras needing his help of all people was, to say the least, a novel experience. As he was not emotionally invested in the cause Les Amis were fighting for and his feelings were plain and clear to those around him, Enjolras had never asked anything of him. All the others had their own duties and assignments directly from their leader, while he was left to mutter and grumble at a table in the backroom of Cafe Musain. Never in a million years had he dreamed of such an opportunity to perhaps raise in Enjolras' esteem at least a bit by being useful to him.

He once again looked in disbelief at Courfeyrac, whose green eyes were watching him intently as if to gauge what was passing through his soul, and nodded mutedly, thus accepting the unexpected request.

* * *

Enjolras could not remember the last time he had felt sheer, utter desperation. True enough, during the three days on the barricades of July he had, at certain moments, felt a flicker of fear which was stifled at the mere memory of the cause he was fighting for. When instead of obtaining the desired proclamation of the Republic, France had gained yet another king, he felt frustration. Even that had been quickly replaced by the hope that if the people had risen then, they would rise once again when the time to fight for the Republic came. Not even when the guns and cannons of the National Guard were pointed towards his general direction and his life was in very real danger, did he feel anything akin to extreme anxiety.

And yet, at that very moment, the feeling that was threatening to make his heart burst out of his chest and his head pound, could only be called desperation.

Francois was crying. In fact, 'crying' was too mild a term for the sounds the tiny creature was producing. Francois was wailing his lungs out and Enjolras could do nothing to stop the wall-shattering cries. Worse still, he was alone in the apartment with the little one and only his intense sense of responsibility prevented him from running away from the screams.

"Francois" the young student started sternly, taking the child in his arms and propping him up to be face to face with him "I know you are hungry, but I can do nothing about it until that wine-sack proves himself useful and finds you a wet-nurse. Do you understand?"

Apparently the baby neither understood his words nor was he impressed by the stern tone of the leader of Les Amis de l'ABC, for he continued wailing just like before. For a moment, although he would have never admitted it to anyone, Enjolras felt like crying himself. Rarely had he experienced such a prevailing sense of impotence. He hugged the child tighter to his chest and started pacing around the room while rocking him gently, hoping against hope that the movement would distract the babe for a while longer until, hopefully, the long awaited wet-nurse would arrive. For how long was it safe for an infant to go without nourishment, anyway?

At that particular train of thought, Enjolras stopped dead in his tracks, a shadow of fear creasing his high forehead. What if the child would die if he did not get any nourishment soon? What if his growth would be stunted or his mind would become weak? What if at that very moment the poor baby was wasting away in his arms only because he, the one who was supposed to take care of him, could not provide him with the simplest necessity of life?

"Francois, you are not allowed to die" the student declared loudly, propping the infant once more to face him "You will grow up, healthy and happy to help the underprivileged. Understood?"

For the first time in the past two hours the infant stopped crying, his murky blue eyes looking tearfully towards the young man. Did the child truly understand his words?

The logic that governed everything in his life told Enjolras that he probably did not. He was, after all, nothing but an infant. Yet, he could not help be at least moderately pleased at the thought that perhaps the child did indeed comprehend his momentous declaration. He brought the child closer to him, his free hand caressing the tiny head until the baby once again scrunched up his face and seemed to remember how hungry he truly was.

"Francois, how about we read something to pass the time before that useless wine-sack brings you some source of nourishment?" Enjolras said quickly, feeling desperation raise within his breast at the mere thought of having the child wail once again.

With a whimpering Francois in his arms, he settled in his armchair and allowed the infant to be placed close to his heart. After all, Combeferre had said that the sound of his heartbeat calmed the child and he would do just about anything to keep the newly found silence intact. With his free hand, he took the first book he could find on the closest table next to the armchair. Bound in a plain brown cover, displaying neither the title nor the author, Saint-Just's  _Fragments sur les institutions républicaines_  was propped next to the infant on his chest, the revolutionary and the infant making a strange domestic picture.

 _"Insurrection is the exclusive right of the people and of the citizen. Every foreigner, every man clothed with public authority, is outlawed if he proposes it and must be put to death as a usurper of sovereignty and as interested in fomenting troubles for the purpose of doing evil or of adorning himself. Insurrections taking place under a despotism are always salutary…"_ Enjolras read calmly and the infant seemed to be fascinated, probably less by the words of that great man and more by the way in which his voice reverberated in his chest.

* * *

"Dear God, are you reading Saint-Just to the poor child?! No wonder the poor creature looks utterly miserable…" a low, rough voice that could only be Grantaire's cut his reading short and Enjolras' head quickly turned in the direction of the voice.

Sure enough, in the middle of his living room stood both the drunkard and Courfeyrac and, for a second, Enjolras wondered how they had gotten in. Had he closed the door to his abode after Combeferre left in the strange pursuit of a dress? Probably not. However, whatever self-chastising was due for his lapse was quickly forgotten, in favour of gracing his guest with the most terrible glare he could muster.

"What I am reading to the child is none of your business, Grantaire!" Enjolras said coldly, challenging Grantaire with his eyes to dispute that particular point.

For his part, Grantaire had long grown so accustomed to Enjolras' glares that they did not have the desired effect upon him. On the contrary. To be honest, he had learned that the only way to make Enjolras pay at least a modicum of attention to him was to rile him up. As such, his angry looks were a strangely welcome sight to the drunkard for it meant that he was no longer invisible to the god.

"Enjolras, while I agree that republican education cannot start early enough, perhaps you could start with something more appropriate for an infant…" Courfeyrac said sensibly, trying to avoid what had the potential to become quite the argument between the two.

"Something that does not involve the advocacy of executions would be a good start…" Grantaire grumbled softly, being somewhat distracted by his surroundings and his ongoing hangover to produce anything wittier than that.

It was the first time that Grantaire had stepped foot into Enjolras' apartment and he was quite pleased at having the opportunity to observe where he lived. As far as he was concerned, the room was remarkable because there was nothing remarkable about it. Grantaire hadn't known what to expect before entering god's abode, but he had certainly not expected the rumpled shirt carelessly thrown on a chair, the half-eaten piece of bread and cheese on the desk next to a mountain of papers, and the glass of water next to some books on the floor. He hadn't quite expected indubitable proof that he changed, ate and drank like mere mortals like himself.

"Grantaire!" Enjolras' sharp voice woke him up from his reverie and he quickly turned his head to be met with the sight of the man gently rocking the child, presumably in an effort to keep him quiet. It was such a strange sight, so unlike the Enjolras that he saw on an almost daily basis ardently give speeches about the merits of the republic, that he could hardly keep himself from laughing. "Where is the wet-nurse?"

"Downstairs" the drunkard answered simply, his mind still having trouble reconciling the image of his marble leader with that of the man so very tenderly holding the babe.

"We are unsure of her political allegiance, mon ami, so we found it prudent to have her wait downstairs in case you were engaging in some… problematic activities" Courfeyrac explained, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he pointedly looked at Saint-Just's book, carelessly placed on the now-empty armchair.

* * *

There was nothing even remotely remarkable about the woman that Grantaire had found. She was short, slightly pudgy, with a head of brown, curly hair, rosy cheeks, brown eyes and a full bosom that Courfeyrac found rather enticing. She recommended herself as Madame Barbin, the wife of a painter and informed Enjolras that she had given birth to a little boy of her own only a month before. Grantaire had sometimes drank with Monsieur Barbin and knew them to be decent people who would not shy away from any job that would supplement their rather meagre income. Most importantly, he knew them to be rather neutral in terms of politics, which considering Enjolras' status as a republican revolutionary, could be nothing but an asset.

As far as Enjolras was concerned, as long as she provided little Francois with the nourishment he needed, he did not care much for who the woman was and how Grantaire had found her.

Deciding it would be most uncouth to impose upon her breastfeeding the baby, Enjolras invited the woman to his bedroom. Fortunately, the funeral house Courfeyrac had made arrangements with had come and removed the corpse of the unfortunate mother a couple of hours beforehand and Combeferre had the presence of mind to remove the blood-stained sheets and clean up the room before he left to indulge in his search of female garments. After he saw the woman comfortably situated with the infant, the owner of the apartment returned to the living room where his other two guests were waiting for him.

"Now, in all seriousness, Julien, what are you planning to do with the child?" Courfeyrac asked seriously as soon as Enjolras entered the room. Regardless of how amusing he found the situation in itself, he knew that the child was an inconvenience on many levels. "You cannot seriously consider keeping him…"

To be honest, the leader had no answer to that particular question no matter how many times both Courfeyrac and Combeferre asked him. It was, after all, a question of matter of life and death, not for himself but for someone who depended on him. It was something that needed serious consideration and he found it slightly unreasonable of his friends to demand an answer of him so quickly.

"I do not claim myself to be an expert in the area, but I suppose child rearing does involve a certain degree of effort. Not to mention that the child cannot be left alone. How will you go to classes? How will you go… do other things…" Courfeyrac continued his dissertation, his voice lowering slightly at the end.

"They are all valid concerns, my friend. However, I have no answer" Enjolras replied levelly, his blue eyes fixing Courfeyrac's green ones.

"There is still the option of a foundling house. We could make sure that he is treated fairly…" the centre of Les Amis proposed tentatively

"I hope, Courfeyrac, that your opinion of me is not so low that you would truly believe me willing to condemn an infant, an innocent son of France, to certain death" the leader replied chillingly.

"It certainly is not, my friend. But you need to recognize that the presence of the child will seriously impair your ability to serve your mistress" the man answered good-naturedly, an indulgent smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Are you planning to take the child with you while you talk to the masses? Will you carry him to classes? Will you take him to political meetings?" he whispered and could see Enjolras' high forehead crease slightly.

"I'll take care of him" a rough voice declared from the corner of the room and both men turned towards its owner, for they had forgotten, for a moment, that a third person was in the room.

"I beg your pardon?" Enjolras looked at Grantaire whose murky eyes were fixed upon his own.

"I'll stay with the child while you are otherwise engaged" Grantaire reiterated.

"You?" the marble leader asked sceptically.

"Day, night… whenever you need me!" the drunkard said with a measure of despair.

"I would not trust you with a rat, much less the life of a child!" Enjolras said, his beautiful features contorting into something akin to disgust.

"Now, Julien, it would be most ungraceful to refuse the services of such a willing nurse" Courfeyrac defended Grantaire, his voice laden with amusement. To be honest, not even him, who proclaimed himself to be so knowledgeable as far as his friends were concerned, could have predicted such a development.

For a moment Enjolras was torn, his eyes looking from his third in command to the drunkard as if to gauge whether the proposal had been made in jest. It was a ridiculous idea. Grantaire was an irresponsible, annoying wine-sack and it would have been tantamount to negligence to entrust the child in his care. On the other hand, being the only one who was permanently without an occupation made Grantaire, from all of Les Amis, the most suitable choice for a 'nurse', as Courfeyrac had put it. Of course, he could just as simply hire a proper nurse for Francois but, for all his defects, he did not fear that Grantaire would disclose the more sensitive contents of his apartment to anyone. And it would allow him to continue his service to Patria undisturbed.

"One chance, Enjolras!" Grantaire said passionately, imploring his leader with his eyes.

"If something happens to Francois, wine-sack, I will make your existence so miserable that the most gruesome of deaths will seem merciful in comparison" Enjolras said sternly, his eyes glinting dangerously and Courfeyrac would have sworn that, for a moment, Grantaire seemed to positively radiate with delight at the confidence that had been placed in him.

 


	5. 18 December 1830

Lips dry, cheeks flushed, and panting from the exercise of running all the way from his humble abode close to the Musain, Grantaire made his, admittedly wild, appearance on the doorstep of the god at eight o'clock sharp.

As he stood waiting for the apartment's resident to answer the door, he felt an inkling of something that resembled a sense of accomplishment at such a display of commitment and punctuality. Or it could have been the last lingering fumes of the lovely light wine he had indulged in during the previous evening and that could, sadly, only be found at the Barrière du Combat. Regardless, Grantaire felt good. He felt strong, invincible, and unconquerable. He felt more than confident that he could undertake the task at hand to the god's satisfaction.

When Enjolras finally opened the door, he clearly didn't share Grantaire's wellbeing. If anything, he looked like a man on the brim of a cliff, hanging onto his sanity by the tips of his fingers. Blue bloodshot eyes, blond curls flying wildly, clothes rumpled and in disarray greeted the resident cynic of Les Amis de l'ABC who was, understandably, dumbstruck for a moment.

"What on earth happened…" he started but was quickly silenced by a piercing glare.

"Quiet down! Francois just fell asleep and if you wake him up and he cries again I will…" Enjolras said in whispered tones, and while he did not give voice to the repercussions of waking up the child, it was clear for the other man that he would not enjoy it in the slightest.

Enjolras tiptoed back into his living room, his bemused visitor following equally as silent. Gracefully, he sat in one of the two armchairs and, for less than an instant, allowed his eyes to close and shoulders to sag slightly. He was tired. He could feel it in the lassitude of his limbs, the way in which his muscles ached and, most worryingly, his sometime muddled thoughts.

The past two days had been, to say the least, trying. Combeferre had all but disappeared from the face of the earth and Francois did nothing but cry, almost constantly, at the oddest of hours. He was sleep deprived, hardly able to work and, truth be told, rather frustrated with the situation.

For his part, Grantaire was watching Enjolras like a hawk, almost fearful to miss even one of the man's unguarded moments. Watching his idol slightly slumped in the armchair, his eyes closed to the world, his muscles lax, Grantaire was once again struck by how different this particular image was from that of the fearless leader and gifted speaker he was so accustomed to seeing. It was a wonderful sight to behold and the remains of the artist in the cynic longed for a way to immortalize the marble man at his most humane.

"Mme. Barbin should be here at ten to feed Francois" Enjolras said in a quiet but firm tone, straightening, as if suddenly remembering he had company "If he's hungry before or after, you have the pap feeder there and milk in the pantry. You can add a bit of sugar or flour to the milk if you so wish" he followed, indicating the strange, white ceramic device on his desk that Combeferre had brought before making himself scarce "Take care to clean it thoroughly after you use it"

Grantaire said nothing, trying to absorb all that he was being told, while Enjolras quietly disappeared for a second and returned with a stack of white linen which he placed on one of the armrests.

"Cloth if he needs changing, which he probably will after feeding. Wash him with warm water and take care to dry him properly, lest he catches a chill" Enjolras continued, with the air of a general handing orders to his troops "If he is agitated, he enjoys being held and hearing you speak… Do try to steer clear of inappropriate subjects" he added as an afterthought and fixed Grantaire with a pointed, sharp look.

The drunkard simply nodded, the sarcastic reply he had in mind dying on his lips as he met Enjolras' tired gaze.

"I shall try to return as soon as possible. However, if I am delayed, you have food in the pantry and you can eat whatever you wish" the leader continued, while straightening his clothes in an attempt at making himself at least presentable before leaving. "Francois is not to be taken outside"

In a display of sensibility, Grantaire once again remained quiet. He could not pretend to be a connoisseur of all the god's dispositions, but, to his surprise, Enjolras seemed concerned. Enjolras was never concerned. He was self-assured. He was inspiring. He was resolute.

Even in the most hopeless of situations, even championing the most forlorn of causes, Enjolras displayed nothing but absolute confidence in his success. In another man, it might have seemed hubris. But not in him. Never in him. In Enjolras, that all-encompassing sureness arose from faith. Faith in the people. Faith in himself to bring about change. Faith in the ideal of the Republic. Faith; a sentiment so foreign to Grantaire that it enthralled him to see it so completely in another, and with which Enjolras had unwittingly subjugated him.

Ironically, it seemed that the only cause the consummate believer no faith in was that of the cynic.

"And… under no circumstances will you drink even a drop of alcohol while you are supervising the child. Do I make myself clear?" Grantaire was awoken from his musings by Enjolras' words and saw that the man was already at the door, clad in his black coat, his blue eyes searching for something in his face. Confirmation that Grantaire had understood his directions? A promise that he would do as he had been instructed? Proof that he was capable of the task at hand?

The believer should not require proof. Proof was, after all, the antithesis of belief.

Had he been in a more jovial mood, or perhaps had he already imbibed some glasses of that light wine for the day, he would have remarked upon the paradox. As things stood, the accomplishment of finding a cause that Enjolras was disinclined to put his faith in, was nothing but dampening Grantaire's previously soaring buoyancy. After all, that particular cause was himself.

Grantaire had never held any illusions about Enjolras' opinion of him. The man had made it perfectly clear on multiple occasions that he believed him to be without restraint, abhorrent in his lack of belief, and amoral in his indulgences. At best, Enjolras tolerated him and, at worst, ignored him. For the tolerance he was grateful although he could hardly understand it. For the ignorance he had found the easy cure of riling him up. However, he had no cure for perceived incompetence. He had no cure to establish faith.

"Be easy" he said in a soft voice, a rough hand impulsively placed on Enjolras' forearm, eyes filled with infinite gentleness and pleading.

Enjolras didn't make any motion to indicate that he had heard him. He simply turned away from those murky, blue eyes and walked out of the apartment.

* * *

He took a deep breath, the cold winter air freezing his lungs, making his cheeks flush and hands go numb. In a feeble attempt to protect himself against the cold he upturned the black collar of his coat against the wind and rubbed his hands against one another. They were mechanical motions, not so much meant to increase his level of comfort but because, honestly, he didn't know what to do with himself.

Combeferre felt ridiculous, standing in front of a frozen hole in the ground, next to a cheap wood coffin waiting for something, anything to happen.

Opened only five years before, le Cimetière des Grandes Carrières was situated north of Paris in a former gypsum quarry. Why Courfeyrac or the funeral house had chosen this particular cemetery, he didn't know. However, he was grateful for their choice. Out of all four necropoleis created after the closure of des Innocents, this one bore the unique distinction of having only one entrance. As such, even standing motionless next to the still-empty grave afforded the man a good vantage point of the only access route, which he watched avidly, not because of impatience but simply because it gave him something to do. A distraction, so to speak.

There were times when even someone as fond of contemplation as Combeferre wanted nothing better than to escape from his own mind. So, instead of thinking, he watched.

He watched a young woman enter bearing flowers, the red of the flowers striking against her black garments. He watched a black hearse pulled by two horses stop at the door and a brown coffin being carried in by a small party of mourners, each of them attempting to surpass the others in their wails and displays of grief. He watched two gravediggers pull in a cart full of bodies and unceremoniously dump them in a mass grave, taking large swings of what could only be some sort of alcohol as they worked.

 _One. Two. Three._  Drink.  _Four. Five. Six._  Drink.  _Seven. Eight. Nine…_  Combeferre stopped counting when he reached twenty two.

It had apparently been a very cold night.

"The priest will be arriving momentarily" a voice said next to him, and the man realized that he had been so absorbed in the activity of the gravediggers he had become oblivious to everything else.

"Courfeyrac?!" Combeferre said, a measure of surprise in his voice "I did not expect you to come"

To be honest, Courfeyrac himself had not expected to be there either. For all the love he bore towards his friends and his wish to share in their moments of both joy and trial, funerals were not something that the dandy would have willing put on his social calendar if it wasn't imperative for him to attend. Unfortunately, it seemed that it was.

"Why not, my friend? I may not have been with you through the ordeal but I have been the one to arrange the aftermath" he offered a brilliant, reassuring simile that, while in terrible contrast with their bleak surroundings, put the medical student at ease. "I gather Enjolras is late" he followed, more for the sake of breaking the depressing silence than anything else.

"It's not like Julien to be late. Perhaps something happened?"

"Be at ease, mon ami" Courfeyrac advised in good humour "Ï have a pretty good idea why he has been delayed"

"Is something the matter? With Julien? With the child?" the future doctor asked with urgency, a wave of guilt washing over him. He had been so absorbed in his grief over the events and had craved solitude so fiercely that he had, to a certain extent, disregarded the fact that his friend had undertaken the momentous task of caring for a child while also dealing with the events of that night.

"Not something to fret over" the dandy smiled "In fact, here he comes and he can explain himself better than I can" he pointed towards the gate where, indeed a black-clad, slim figure with golden hair was making its way towards them.

Combeferre followed his companion's hand and could also distinguish the black figure walking purposefully towards them. He felt a sense of relief washing over him at seeing him approach. While he had been grateful for Courfeyrac's unexpected presence, he had awaited Enjolras'. Courfeyrac was warmth and joviality. Enjolras was a compass. Although he would have not voiced his feelings for fear of imposing them on the younger man, Combeferre knew that, at times like this, he needed him. He needed his surety, his decisiveness, his logic.

While he pondered, Enjolras took action. While he looked at the past, Enjolras had his face turned towards the future. While he mourned the dead, Enjolras dealt with the living.

He had often privately thought that the restrictions his younger friend placed on his own persona were both draconian and, at times, downright unhealthy. While he did admire Enjolras' fortitude of character he also lamented the fact that Enjolras denied himself experiences which, in Combeferre's opinion, were essential to have for every human being. However, the iron-clad hold his friend had on his own feelings and his preference for glorifying the absolute at the expense of understanding the humane, afforded him a cold sense of lucidity that few could have. It was that particular lucidity that Combeferre needed most at that very moment.

"Combeferre. Courfeyrac?!" Enjolras nodded in greeting, his voice mirroring Comberre's surprise at seeing his more sociable friend.

Courfeyrac didn't know whether to be offended or annoyed at Enjolras' reaction. Combeferre's could be forgiven, for he was decidedly not himself. But he had expected better from his leader. Especially since he had decided to spend a perfectly good Saturday morning in a graveyard because of him. Or rather, because he didn't know whether Enjolras would be there to join Combeferre for the funeral or not.

* * *

His decision to attend the dreary event had been taken at precisely a quarter past six that very morning when he had been awakened from sweet slumber by a most annoying knock at his door. The offender had been none other than one of the boys at the funeral home who, in a nervous stutter, told him they needed to know what he wanted engraved on the tombstone. Admittedly, when making the funeral arrangements, Courfeyrac had given his own address as a point of contact. However, he had been rather confused that it had actually been used, not so much because he resented the disturbance, but because there should have been no need for it. After all, were Enjolras and Combeferre not there?

Some future probing and more nervous stuttering revealed a rather alarming fact: not two, but only one gentleman had been attending the wake and he seemed so very distraught that no one dared to disturb his grieving to ask for instructions.

The boy's statement had stirred within the dandy's breast two very different, yet equally consuming feelings: compassion and anger. Compassion towards Combeferre's ordeal and anger towards Enjolras. After all, marble pseudo-parent or not, their leader should have recognized the torment his friend was going through and should have made it his priority to support him. It had been then and there that Courfeyrac, casting his intense abhorrence of funerals aside, had decided to make it his duty to be there for his friend.

* * *

Courfeyrac was not one to hold a grudge. Quite the contrary. He was one of those men who felt intense pulsations of anger one moment and forgot them the next. Testament to his belief in the duties of friendship, his anger at Enjolras' slight towards Combeferre lasted the entire trip from his apartment to the cemetery. However, the moment his blond friend made his appearance the last remains of that awful sentiment drained from his being and were replaced with infinite goodwill. Considering how tired and drawn their leader looked, almost as bad as Combeferre himself, it would have been far too unkind of him to be angry at the man.

"I gather imparting the secrets of good childcare to Grantaire took longer than expected?" he offered, putting a warm hand on his friend's shoulder in a show of kindness.

"Grantaire?" Combeferre asked astonished, a second wave of guilt washing over him at his selfishness. How very desperate Enjolras must have been to entrust the child to Grantaire's care of all people?

Enjolras simply nodded in confirmation, his expression passive. Perhaps had he been in different company, his attitude would have passed as nonchalant, almost dismissive. However, Combeferre had spent a substantial part of their association making a study of the younger man's subtle moods. He could tell almost immediately that his blond friend was hardly as calm as he tried to appear. In fact, if the subtle, restless way his fingers moved and the crease on the tall forehead were any indication, Enjolras was concerned.

"Julien, I think… perhaps you should go…" the medical student advised, sensing that his younger friend was not at all comfortable with the arrangement.

Enjolras was not as adept at discerning others' moods as Combeferre was. That being said, in that particular case he didn't need such an aptitude. The moment Combeferre's words flew off his lips, he could feel Courfeyrac stiffen at his side and, in as casual a manner as possible, placing a firm hand on his elbow in an obvious attempt to make him stay. The dandy's gentle physical prodding was, to say the least, unnecessary. He might have often been oblivious to the subtle dispositions his friends had, but there was nothing remotely subtle about Combeferre's misery.

"I share you scepticism, my friend. But he offered and Courfeyrac vouched for his good intentions" Enjolras replied allowing a faint smile to spread across his lips in a gesture of reassurance for the medical student.

"That I did! And I would do so again!" Courfeyrac exclaimed in a booming voice ill-befitting their setting "I think both of you are too quick to dismiss Grantaire's capabilities" he added, not particularly because he believed the statement to be true, but because he hoped he could placate his friends on the matter.

Combeferre seemed to simply accept his words with a faint nod of understanding. Enjolras, on the other hand, looked at him like he had just proclaimed himself to be the King of France.

* * *

After changing the child for the second time in the past hour, Grantaire decided he needed a drink. Badly. Two very important considerations prevented him from acting on the impulse: firstly, Enjolras would be furious with him should he dare to drink in the presence of the child, or, even worse, leave the child unattended to satisfy his craving; secondly, he had the far more pressing problem of a screaming Francois to attend to.

To his credit, Francois had been quiet after Enjolras had left and during the visit of Mme Barbin, who had even gone as far as to compliment the baby on his pleasant disposition and despair at the loudness of her own brood. Well-fed and changed, the baby had drifted off to sleep and Grantaire had occupied himself with studying the books that littered the floor of the archangel of the revolution. His confidence at being able to complete the task at hand successful not diminished in the slightest and, stationed close to the fire, he had even nodded off on occasion, enjoying the blissful peace and the rather homely atmosphere.

Then, as the saying goes, all hell broke loose.

What started like a rather subdued whimper, turned into a full blown cry in a matter of minutes and Grantaire found he didn't have enough hands with which to comfort the child. He tried reading to him. He tried feeding him. He tried changing him. It was all for naught.

The child was still wailing and Grantaire was at his wits' ends.

"You know, little one? You're as demanding as Enjolras himself… Only that he can enunciate!" He said in a gruff voice and, in a fit of childish pique, he stuck his tongue out at the baby.

Silence.

Blissful silence that the drunkard was awed at. Francois did not utter a sound and instead looked at the man with murky eyes. To be honest, his expression was somewhat reminiscent of Enjolras' when Grantaire said something idiotic in his drunken ramblings.

Sensing that he had caught onto something and with a clear look of triumph upon his face, he placed the babe on an armchair and knelt in front of him.

* * *

The priest was a round, balding man in the winter of his life, with a crotchety voice and an indifferent expression. The fat hands that were holding the leather-bound black bible were trebling and his black cope made him blend in the grey, dreary scenery of Grandes Carrière. Every so often, he would direct his small black eyes towards the wooden coffin offering a terrible glare, as if to blame the poor woman for having died during such a cold winter season. Enjolras was instantly repulsed by the man and lost interest in him and his words in less than a minute.

"… _córpora hic sepeliúntur, ánimas eórum ab ómnibus absólve vínculis delictórum; ut in te semper cum Sanctis tuis sine fine læténtur. Per Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen."_  He made the sign of the cross and the three attendees followed his lead mechanically.

The sudden movement had distracted Enjolras from his far-away thoughts and he was surprised to see that quite a crowd had gathered around the grave. Beggars looking for alimony, he gathered by their wretched clothing. Old, young, women, men, children of different ages were now listening to the priest and looking at the three, well-dressed young men with a hungry look in their eyes. They cared little for what the priest was saying which, considering his uninspired delivery and the fact that, as per Catholic standards the service was in Latin, was understandable. They cared even less for the dead woman. Yet, they dutifully went through the motions of the service, repeating "Amen" when it was due and following the priest's lead in making the sign of the cross.

" _Réquiem æternam dona ei, Dómine. Et lux perpétua lúceat ei._ _Amen."_ Another cross. More pretence.

Such hypocrisy made Enjolras' skin crawl. But he couldn't fault them. They were hungry and thus prepared to go through that ritualistic farce in exchange for a few coins. Their situation was understandable. What was incomprehensible was the fact that the society they lived in not only allowed such creatures to exist, but also did nothing to correct their behaviour and improve their situation in life.

Paris was stirring once more. He heard it whispered in obscure corners, he saw it in the angry faces of the people on the street, he felt it in his very bones. The trial of the ministers of the last bourbon tyrant was underway and the people were asking for their blood. They were right to do so. Like his predecessors, that perfidious king had not only believed himself entitled to rule by right of god, but had also acted upon his belief by attempting to subjugate the people during his six years of ruling. Exile was too light a punishment for one who had oppressed the people. They should have asked for  _his_  head instead.

" _Anima ejus, et ánimæ ómnium fidélium defunctórum, per misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace. Amen."_ The priest said with a tone of finality and, hastened 'amens' out of the way, those unfortunate people had started to move closer to them.

He was tempted to ask them to stop. He wanted to chastise them for their behaviour and urge them to not give into their animalistic tendencies. He wished nothing better than talk to them about the republic and give them the hope of a future where all men would be masters of their destiny. Yet, he took one look at Combeferre and whatever words he might have had died on his lips.

His friend was crying. Not in a quiet, dignified manner, befitting a gentleman. He was downright sobbing, his tears falling large and heavy on his cheeks, his heaves fogged his glasses and his hands were clutching at Courfeyrac's sleeve with something akin to desperation. For his part, the dandy seemed unsurprised by such a display, his free arm strategically placed around Combeferre's shoulders in a show of physical support, and his lips lowered to the medical student's ear whispering words of comfort.

Enjolras immediately turned his head, trying to school his startled expression into one of neutrality. He didn't want to see Combeferre like that. He  _couldn't_  see Combeferre like that.

* * *

"Try to calm down, Etienne. I think our fearless leader is about to faint from the shock of seeing you like this" Courfeyrac said gently, much louder than his previous whispers, trying to infuse his words with as much cheer as he could muster. They sounded flat and fake. They did, however, have a predictable effect.

Upon hearing the words "leader" and "faint" used in the same sentence made the medical student rapidly raise his head and search for Enjolras. Although he hadn't wished to either witness or be involved in Combeferre's moment of weakness, Courfeyrac's words had drawn the said leader's attention, so he was the unwilling subject to the full force of a pair of inquisitive, tear-rimmed, brown eyes. He didn't even have the time to deny Courfeyrac's claims, for the instigator had immediately left to tend to the beggars and the payment of the priest.

"My God, Julien… I am so sorry!" Combeferre said between sobs. "I-I… don't know what came over me! Are you well? "

Had he been a more demonstrative person, Enjolras would have laughed. Was  _he_  well? He? He wasn't the one having a crisis of hysterics in the middle of a cemetery!

"Heavens, what a question! Of course you aren't well…" Combeferre continued, taking his silence as proof of illness "You are so pale, my friend! We should sit down!" his eyes darted around, looking for a place to sit.

Before he could correct his friend's assumptions, Enjolras found himself forcefully supported like an invalid and made to sit on a marble bench, next to a well-kept, heavily-decorated sepulchre. The duty of caring for an ailing friend had made Combeferre regain a measure of control and the leader was grateful for that particular small mercy. He was ill-prepared to deal with anyone's tears, much less Combeferre's, the man he had always known to be so calm and soothing.

"I'm sorry, my friend… I didn't mean to… " The medical student reiterated his apologies, finding his friend's silence completely unnerving "You are going through such a difficult time… I should have thought better… You must be so tried…"

"Etienne!" Enjolras said in a firm voice, stopping the litany of incoherent apologies. "Do not concern yourself with me. I am well" he followed, in a far gentler tone, placing a white hand on his friend's shoulder.

"But Courfeyrac…" the man protested weakly.

"Merely jesting" he offered a feeble smile which seemed to placate Combeferre "For the benefit of us both rather than his own amusement, I suspect. You were rather…unhinged… "

"I'm sorry… " he started once more but his words were met with a dismissive wave and a piercing blue look.

"Etienne… I'm not particularly good at this…" Enjolras replied after a moment's silence, raising to his feet, his voice more uncertain than Combeferre had heard it in a number of years "… but, if there's anything you wish to discuss, I'm always available."

The offer, made in that earnest tone, touched Combeferre beyond belief, especially since he was well aware how uncomfortable his friend was discussing matters of an emotional nature. In an impulse of gratitude he threw his hands around Enjolras' thin frame. For a moment, the blond man stiffened under the touch, unaccustomed to such physical displays of affection. Then, he felt his muscles relax and a pair of strong arms enveloped Combeferre into a strong embrace.

Feeling that warm, strong body filled with vigour supporting him, the medical student allowed himself to cry once more.

* * *

 

He felt drained. Completely and utterly drained. Combeferre's tears had lasted for what seemed like hours and Courfeyrac had disappeared after tending to the beggars and the priest. It had been a miserable day and, if his previous two nights with the baby were any indication, the night promised to be equally as miserable. As he made his way to his apartment, it struck Enjolras how quiet it was. No crying from the child. Perhaps he was asleep.

The picture he encountered in his living room made him still in the doorway. Grantaire had dragged the armchair closer to the fire and was kneeling in front of it. The baby was strategically placed to face the drunkard, whose face was mere centimetres from tiny Francois. Strangely enough, ever so often, the man would widen his murky blue eyes and stick his tongue out towards the poor child.

For Enjolras it was, to say the least, a disconcerting picture.

"What in the world are you doing?" he said, a hint of annoyance colouring his voice.

"Good evening to you too!" the cynic replied with sarcasm, his head raising towards the other man.

"What are you doing to the poor infant?" Enjolras reiterated his question, not exactly appreciating Grantaire's sarcastic tone.

"I taught him something!" the man answered with a modicum of pride. "Come and see!"

The leader was, for a moment, conflicted. For once, he was actually interested in something that Grantaire had done, mostly because it involved his charge. On the other hand, considering the man's ineptitude, he was sceptical that he was capable of teaching anything useful to anyone. Plus, the terrifying scene he had witnessed mere moments beforehand was not at all promising. It would not do to encourage such ridiculous behaviour in anyone.

"Come!" Grantaire urged and, for once, he was inclined to listen to his words.

Curiosity winning over distaste, Enjolras joined the two next to the fire and could see, much to his surprise, that Francois was awake. Awake and quiet.

"Go ahead. Show me" he dismissingly told the drunkard who, now that he had the god's full attention, was more than happy to comply.

Apparently completely unaware of how ridiculous he looked, Grantaire resumed his ritual of bringing his face exceedingly close to the baby, widening his eyes, raising his eyebrows and sticking his tongue out. He had been holding that gruesome expression for mere moments when it happened: Francois started to raise his tiny eyebrows and stuck a small pinkish tongue out, in a partially successful attempt at copying the adult.

Enjolras was horrified and, if he was being honest, a little bit impressed. Not that he would have ever voiced the latter.

"How ridiculous! You have taught him to become a fool!" he scoffed.

"You should try doing this as well" Grantaire recommended, completely disregarding the insult.

"I most certainly will not!" Enjolras replied with a measure of outrage at the mere notion of behaving in such an undignified way.

"It keeps him quiet" the cynic answered dryly.

He could not help but feel a measure of success at having rendered the marble god speechless for once.


End file.
